


all that remains

by minimalcoloration



Series: The Secret Robin Documents [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Amnesia, Character Study, Gen, Gender neutral Kiran, Kiran just wants to help but Grima's not having it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 07:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14039712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minimalcoloration/pseuds/minimalcoloration
Summary: "Trust will do nothing but end your life, remember that."





	all that remains

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd :)
> 
> x-posted from tumblr @drivedef

Mortals talk about their hopes and aspirations, share their doomed dreams and fight for worthless causes until they draw their last breath in the fields of battle. Their families mourn the lost, but walk forward to their deaths as if they cannot learn a lesson. Like moths to a flame, they’re attracted to false hopes and feed on the remains of their victims, a history repeated years in the past and years into the future. It is loathsome, to see them scramble, to see them beg on their knees and then proceed to scar another’s. They are no better than he is, no better than the dirt that his unfamiliar boots tread on, than the charred remains and the scent of burnt flesh that remains in his wake; they are monsters, just as he is. Their hopes and dreams, they do not deserve them, they do not need the bravery that guides them, nor the happiness that they believe they earn.

Grima prods his stolen memory like a youngling, scratching at it until it bleeds and makes his head hurt. It frustrates him to no end, everything that he has lost, reminds him of the shot of loneliness that his host breathes when they are in the world of awakening, standing in the heat of the sand with naught to protect them from the blaze. It’s all he remembers, a hint left behind by a him that was far stronger, far smarter than he; one who had won. It urges him to kill, as if the blood on his hands would bring resolve to the missing pages of his existence, as if it is all he is and nothing more.

Is there truly anything else to a god? Followers throw themselves to his feet at his beck and call; blindly call out to him as if he was a servant in their employ. Divinity is truly lost on the living, and he finds comfort in the wishes of the dead, the dead do not beg at his feet, they do not complain; he does not have to comply. The poison that litters his memories disagrees, and even in the sharp hollow of the night he recalls thoughts that are not his, thoughts that belong to the fool he occupies, thoughts that make him frown. A forced recollection, he remembers the quiet of waiting for his chance, he remembers the devotion of the living that granted him a second chance. Yet, even then, they continually fail, even when it comes to their payment he finds them lacking. It only serves to reaffirm the hate in his gut.

Why then, does he despise the younglings who wear the guise of mortals? They are as foolish as those they serve to protect, and it is only a matter of millennia before they learn how loathsome their masters can be, a prime example of childish belief instilled by their masters’ lies. Grima’s vessel winces when he finally seats himself on the stairs leading up to the castle, and he finds he had once again overestimated the stamina of his body. Somehow, his thoughts drift to the endurance of the children who house kindred spirits, do their mortal forms suffer as his? Does the morning not feel like death, brought forth from its slumber? He doesn’t want to know, he tells himself, and attempts to redirect the curiosity he could have only gotten from the original owner of this body into the depths of it’s emotion.

He had a body of his own, thousands of years prior. Yet it’s feeling is lost to him now, a ghost of the greatness that makes his enemies tremble in unknown fear. Its body now is merely a weapon, and every now and then he glances up at its grandiose scale and wishes it truly belonged to him. Steps echo behind him, in the stone halls of the corridor and he readies himself to strike. It runs through his veins, the power manifested through millennia of patience, the rage that obliterates kingdoms and splits the sky apart like a fool’s sword. As they move closer he feels himself clench and release the hands of his vessel, and once he sees their shadow he’s fully determined to spill blood. 

He doesn’t.

Kiran rounds the corner in uncharacteristic silence, and instead of paying mind to the aura that emanates from him like fog stems from a lake, they ignore his presence and glide down the steps to the one he is seated on, and they sit. His hand lowers like a diffused candle flame, and his gaze never leaves their shrouded face as they look ahead. The quiet persists, and he finds his thoughts ungraciously disrupted by their mere presence alone. Annoyed by the disruption into lack of speech, he moves to leaves but stops when he finds no response from the summoner. Turning his head, he notices their gaze is directly on him, and it sets him on edge in the most infuriating way.

Kiran doesn’t flinch when he barks at them to say something or leave, and instead they opt to pat the spot beside them on the stairs, right where he was. Grima finds his vessel unnerved, and their warmth captures his hand when he slowly sits back down. They have not said anything yet, and that’s how they stay, their hand on top of his looking ahead at the horizon. Uncomfortable, is what the Robin he now owns would use to describe this feeling, but with his hand trapped he finds it hard to resolve the problem that arose from the summoner’s action. _Why?_ Is the only thing on his mind when he too turns to the horizon line for answers, shifting away from Kiran’s presence and placing more and more space between them and their hands. 

He catches on to what they want to convey when they press down harder, and it stings his pride. Strength and action come to him instantly and he slips his hand from their grasp ignoring the dirt that ends up on his gloved hand in order to make a point. Companionship was not needed, not now, not ever. Friendship was a lie, and fools that place their trust in others for the sake of it are doomed to be hurt by the very trust they gave away. Grima expects Kiran to take the clue, to leave him alone with his thoughts, and is disappointed when they don’t. He is left alone, however, and that is far better than another attempt at trying to get their blood on his hands.

The dark of the night houses no stars, and he feels the birth of a scoff as he feels the rejection from heaven itself as if he was worthy to begin with. He knows the extent of his sins, the extent of all the wrong that was placed on him, of all of the red that stains the trails he walks, and of the scent of rot that swims in his lungs. Grima knows that he is nothing but a monster, but why? The murky waters refuse to clear and he is stuck imagining why he longs for a body. Death is nothing but a side effect; he is a god, so why did it matter to him that a child was born with a heart linked to his? There is no answer, from the silence within and the more he repeats the question in his mind the less he tries to care. What did having a mortal form accomplish other than his revival? What did he not have that the divine dragon did when they are inexplicably linked? He is a monster, so why did it matter to him to bear the face of that same child?

Warmth on their hand steals his thoughts away again and his arm moves ever so slightly before he stops himself. Kiran is looking directly at him, and when he meets their gaze they remove their hand and smile. Grima returns a glare that would certainly kill if it could, but their smile never fades.

“Why is it that you are so intent on interrupting my thoughts?” He finally speaks, breaking the atmosphere and never once looking away. Kiran’s smile falters into something he’s seen before, pity _._ It makes his blood boil and he feels the spirit within him stir in aggravation. “Do not look at me with pity.” He snaps with a growl.

“You fight with yourself over what you do not know,” Kiran begins and Grima finds himself uncharacteristically surprised at their conclusion but forces his neutrality, “as if it would help you find answers.”

“And what _would_ , summoner?” He sarcastically replies, as if a mortal could understand the turmoil that gods suffer at the hands of their ever so faithful followers, and he feels his vessel cross his arms, watching as Kiran ponders what he could only assume to be a multitude of excuses. They furrow their brows and place a thumb under their chin in a pensive motion that seems to last ages.

“Trust would.” Is all they manage to say when they lower their hand and look at him, and he scoffs. _Trust? **Trust?**_ What would trust do that it has not failed in before? Why would he trust beings incapable of even taking care of themselves, why should he place his faith in those who have deceived him time and time again? Grima snarls at the summoner and decides that he’s heard enough lies. Standing, he doesn’t bother to wipe the dirt off of his coat.

“Trust will do nothing but end your life, _remember that._ ” The steps prove only a bit challenging for him, and he once again damns his decision to occupy a frail body as he feels the stiffness in his legs. His pace is quick regardless of physical obstacles, and the fell dragon descends back into the shroud of night as Kiran turns to spy stars twinkling in the night sky.


End file.
